


Bloody knuckles can't silence your brain

by sadfuckboy



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, aesthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10570971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadfuckboy/pseuds/sadfuckboy
Summary: There's always something marking the line for the violence to stop, or someone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Small Mickey drabble. He is really one of the greatest characters in tv history, at least for me.

Life plays with them from the very beginning. Crusty houses lined on the cracked street. Their houses. Government’s forgotten children who found their own fabricated families.  
Pulled together by humanity rather than a common enemy or pain.  
They build their lives on concrete steps and hid in the empty bottles on the kitchen counter, money rained on them in their sleep and hate tingled their skin when they saw those others who still had it when awake.  
All of them calling for mother. Like we all do.  
Worn out lazes in sneakers passed down from older siblings. Old clothes, wrong patterns. Layers and layers. Softball, kicked to the ground and finishing around average. Screaming. Running to the store and out of it. Sweets taste good even when morality throws mold in them. Laughter.  
First tattoos at the age of 15. First kiss still finding it's meaning. First love barely a thought. 

 

Mickey lights up a cigarette. The smell sticks to his already fragrant clothes as he breathes out smoke. Lips and hand shaking.  
Night sky stands in front of him. Stars blink. He blinks back. Cold wind pats his swollen eye, calling his pain insignificant.  
He kicks the roof he’s sitting on. Frustration boiling under his chest.  
Maybe it's something else too. Anger? Fear? Sadness?  
He's never going to go home. No place like that can hold him. The air was so packed with tension and ill thoughts it hurt to breathe. Brothers and a sister whom he protected and loved since no one else did, but whose warmth wasn’t enough to keep the house approachable. Father colder than the hardest ice.  
And him, boy hurting from the burning inside of him. Cursing every fucker gotten on his way to the emptiness that masked itself as the future. 

He wished for maleficent thoughts and the will to hurt, but all he actually got was sadness, violence was not the person he had been born to be, only taught to become. You can’t make a wolf from a dog. 

That’s probably what he was, no lonely wolf, but a misplaced and pitiful street dog. Barking not for the moon but for the creatures under it.  
Those fucking assholes, the more privileged, the less privileged, the sad looking, the angry. Helpless, the same.  
Same as him. That’s why he trusted none of them.  
His true true colors were forcefully hidden under the nasty dirt coloring his pale skin and hard knuckles. 

Thinking about helplessness lifts something from the back of his head.

A face, colored in evolution’s dirt, hair an uncommon tint, staring at him across the road with an even more uncommon look. Something Mickey hadn’t seen in their little town for years: the boy had a look and the will to challenge him.  
Ian Gallager. That kid wasn’t taking any fuckery, yet acted like a rational piece of shit.  
Boy looked like he would have jumped on him in a second if it hadn’t been for mickey’s previous fame.  
That redhead seemed fearless. And Mickey Milkovich, the son of raging fires, boy from the edge of the world, had almost stuttered.

At the time he had walked away with exaggerated power in his step, but now the thought of the other boy made his body confused. Ian Gallager was miles away from emotional attachment, but still he refused to stay in the enemy category of mickey’s brain. And literally anyone had room in there.  
Since he was a kid everyone had just slid there without much thinking.  
A brunette down the block has a permanent scar from skipping in the swing line when the milkovich blood line still barely terrorized the playgrounds. A tourist kept his prejudice of south side after he met with mickey one dreadful day five summers ago.  
Half the town had tasted his mindless violence, he shared it like a UFC fighter on acid. But somehow, the last thing he wanted to see was fear or bruises on Ian Gallager’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this!! I love to write something like this. storylines aren't really my strongest point.
> 
>  
> 
> my art blog/tumblr is @uupunutnuori
> 
> and my main is @kohmettunutlapsi


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